“Than to have the king waste money on you? Ah, oui, so I would.”
“And if you had been the captive?”
“I would have died before I could be,” Mercardier declared. “They would never have taken me.”
Robin believed that assertion very likely, in view of the mercenary’s sheer physical power and military experience. “The king would have ransomed you.”
The captain spat. “I am not an earl’s son.”
“You are the king’s boon companion,” Robin said. “Brothers in arms, and temperament. No man in the army was closer to him than you.”
Mercardier’s expression remained masked by shadow. “But I am not a nobleman. Only a soldier.”
“And that means far more to the king than noble birth. You know that to be true, Mercardier.”
“In war.” The tone was rough. “But in peace, what am I? What need is there for such as I?”
And so the truth, and fear, was known. Robin wondered if Mercardier realized he had betrayed himself. And it was a valid thought: what place was there for a soldier who lost his king and commander? Noblemen, men of consequence because of wealth and holdings, returned home, as he had, to take up other duties. Men like Mercardier fought for coin, went where coin was offered. But men like Mercardier also occasionally found leaders they served out of respect and admiration, out of a kinship in spirit, as the captain served Coeur de Lion.
“If it be John,” Robin said, thinking it through. “If it be John, there will still be a war to fight. Against the King of France.”
Mercardier shrugged massive shoulders. “Philip is a fool.”
“But a rich fool, and wiser perhaps than John.” Robin frowned into the dying firelight. “Wiser in the ways of the world than Arthur of Brittany.”
“And do you say I should go to France? To serve Philip?”
With care, Robin ventured, “It is a possibility.”
Mercardier grunted deep in his throat. “So, is there a possibility I may kill you before dawn.”
Robin said dryly, “Then I shall have to pray I do not startle you in your sleep.”
Mercardier’s tone, surprisingly, was equally dry. “Keep yourself out of my bed, and I shall not be startled.”
Robin was surprised into sudden laughter; it was not like Mercardier to wield the weapon of irony in conversation, least of all in threat. Perhaps after all the rumor was set to rest, and hostility in abeyance. “Given a choice, I would be home in a proper bed, and with the woman who shares it.”
“Some of us,” the captain retorted, “are not so fortunate as to have a home, a proper bed, and a woman in it.”
Locksley, grinning, wrapped his cloak around himself and stretched out on the ground near the fading fire. No one, he reflected, was as fortunate as he. Because no one else had Marian.
Come morning, the kitchen was the most popular place in the household. Marian had long grown accustomed to seeing nearly everyone who lived and worked at Ravenskeep coming into the big room to break their fast only to linger near the warmth of the huge hearth; occasionally she had to shoo them out again if the morning was particularly cold, so they might begin their work. This morning the day was not so chill, the kitchen not so crowded.
Until the messenger came into it and gave her his news.
He was young, slim, ruddy-haired, clad in a doublet bearing the triple leopards of the king. He came from Huntington Castle, he said; sent by the earl, he said. His task was to find Sir Robert of Locksley, and he had gone to where he believed Locksley was: at his father’s castle. The messenger had the next morning been sent on to Ravenskeep, for the earl had made it abundantly clear his son did not keep to castles, but to the manor house and bed of a wanton woman. Which the messenger was required to state with precision; it was his price for being hosted the night at Huntington Castle.
Shocked, Marian stared. She was aware of the hush in the kitchen as Cook and the others waited to hear her response.
After a moment of pain commingled with anger, she carefully set down the mug of steaming cider, incongruously aware of the scent of cloves and cinnamon, so she would not hurl it at the man.
The messenger colored and lowered his eyes, shamed. “Lady,” he said, clearly wanting to complete his business and leave before she could hurl the cider at him, “I am sent to bring word to Sir Robert that he is to attend the king in France.”
She would give him no cause to think of her as anything but what she was: the daughter of a respectable knight, who had died fighting for his king, his country, and his God in the land of the Infidel. She knew well what the earl thought of her; what no doubt the residents of Nottingham believed of her: a woman who lived with a man outside of wedlock. Surely she tarnished her father’s memory with such lewd behavior.
But her comportment was her own to tend—she had lost her reputation five years before, when Will Scarlet abducted her from Nottingham and carried her away into Sherwood Forest—and she would see to it the royal messenger had no just cause to speak of her as a woman lacking courtesy. “Will you break your fast with us?”
He ducked his head in brief salute. “My thanks, lady, but I was given food at the castle.”
Of course. The earl would want him to say his reception lacked for nothing.
“Your message was brought last night,” she said. “By a king’s man called Mercardier.”
It startled the messenger. “Mercardier? Here? But then—” He broke it off, alarmed. “The king—”
“The king is dying,” Marian said. And added, very gently, “Mercardier apparently knew how best to find Sir Robert.”
It was a rebuke, and he acknowledged it with a flicker of brown eyes. His face reddened again.
“They left for France last night,” she said.
“Then if you will excuse me, lady, I shall take my leave as well.” He bowed, turned as if to leave, then paused. “Lady,” he said diffidently, “perhaps there is explanation in that the earl is ill.”
“Explanation?”
“For—what he said. And bade me say.”
Marian smiled faintly, glad she was able. “Ill or no, he would say the same. And expect you to repeat it.”
He nodded, bowed again, was gone.
With exceptional control, she took up the mug. The scent of cinnamon and cloves faded as the liquid cooled. She contemplated its surface a moment.
Joan, who had come in with the messenger, spat into the rushes. “That for the earl!”
Marian smiled sourly. “Ah, but he is ill.”
“As he should be, with that black soul.” Joan paused. “Has he a soul?”
“Then perhaps I should go and see,” Marian said lightly.
Joan was astonished. “What, go there? To Huntington? But, Lady Marian—why? He will only speak evil things of you!”
“Of me, yes,” Marian agreed. “But also to me, which is somewhat preferable to having them said to others.”
“You’ll beard him!” Joan began to grin. “You’ll beard the old fool in his own den, so you will.” She exchanged gleeful glances with Cook and the others. “Aye, Lady Marian, you’ll shut his mouth for him in good time.”
“Oh, I think not. But surely I can inquire as to his health, and whether I may be of aid in any way.” She handed Cook the cooled cider. “After all, I was reared to be kind to less fortunate souls.”
Joan was transfixed. “What will you do?”
“Visit the earl,” Marian answered serenely, “and offer him my company in his hour of need.”
William deLacey was most displeased. He was a man capable of adjudicating all that happened within his shire without quibble or hesitation, seeing to it that the folk in this portion of the king’s realm did as they were meant. It was a duty he took seriously and performed most assiduously, satisfied that no doubt could be attached to his acceptance of responsibility.
But he doubted himself, his sanity, when his daughter made her presence felt within his world.
DeLacey, ou
tside the mews, carefully placed the young hawk onto its weathering block so as not to tangle the jesses, then took his daughter’s arm and marched her away before she could disturb any of the birds. And he knew she would; she had that look in her eye.
DeLacey muttered a brief prayer for patience, then plopped her down on a bench in the shade of an outbuilding wall. “What is it this time?”
“What it always is,” Eleanor answered. “Gisbourne.”
DeLacey’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
His daughter attempted to look demure and sound hesitant. She was convincing in neither effort. “He will not do his duty by me.”
This was wholly unexpected. The sheriff stared. “You come to me with this? This?” It was preposterous. “Good Christ, Eleanor, this is not my responsibility! You would have me order your husband to sleep with his wife?”
“It is God’ law,” she said, “that a man should service his wife.”
DeLacey barked a harsh laugh. “Like a prize bull, is that it? Christ, Eleanor—this is between you and Gisbourne. It belongs in the bedchamber, not in my hall.”
“God’slaw,” she repeated.
“I am the king’s servant,” he countered. “Not God’s. Seek a priest if you wish to involve the Lord.”
She fixed a steady gaze on him. “You gave him his position. You gave him me.”
“Because you were with child!” deLacey shouted, not caring who heard. “God only knows whose child it is—certainly not Gisbourne’s, if I am to believe this folly—”
“The minstrel’s,” Eleanor, interrupting, replied evenly. “The one who forced me.”
It well could be, deLacey reflected. The child was nearly five years old, fair-haired and blue-eyed, while his mother was brown in both. But Eleanor’s mother had also been fair, so he could not swear the child who bore Gisbourne’s name was of the minstrel’s begetting.
“Forced you,” he said in disgust. “You know what is said of that.”
“But you silenced them,” Eleanor reminded him, “by marrying me in all haste to the first man you could find.” Her mouth twisted in disdain. “Surely there was someone else—”
He cut her off. “I had planned to marry you to the Earl of Huntington’s son. But after you and the minstrel were discovered, the chance for that was gone.”
“He forced me,” Eleanor said. “And so did you. Forced me to marry Gisbourne.”
“Would you have been more content had I sent you to the Marches where you could have wed a wild Welshman?”
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “perhaps he might have had more appetite for his marriage bed.”
His own appetite was for departure. He found a reason, and told her. “I have business with the earl,” deLacey said. “If you are wanting for your husband’s affections, perhaps you might offer him more than the edge of your tongue.”
Four
The Earl of Huntington watched as his steward, Ralph, carefully sanded the parchment, then sealed it with wax. Ralph neatly pressed the earl’s signet ring into the ruby dollop, removed it, inspected the impression, let the wax dry. It was the third such letter he had drafted for his master this afternoon; two others, sealed, lay on the table. They bore names already inscribed on them: Eustace de Vesci and Henry Bohun, lords of Alnwick and Hereford. Ralph inked the quill again, and with a clear, tidy hand inscribed the third and last letter: Geoffrey de Mandeville, who was Earl of Essex and the king’s Justiciar.
The Earl of Huntington’s mouth crimped. It was likely de Mandeville would lose the latter position, to be replaced by another. Such things were common when the crown passed from one royal head to another.
Ralph, gathering up all three letters, looked to his master for orders. The earl nodded. “See to it,” he rasped hoarsely. “As soon as may be.”
“My lord.” Ralph bowed himself out of the sickroom.
And so it begins. Again. The earl coughed, then pulled testily at the bedclothes, settling them higher about his chest. He detested being ill at this time, when all of England would soon be in turmoil. He had no time for such things as fevers and recalcitrant lungs when great works required doing, such things as he now embarked upon. He and the others had been in close contact years before, when John, the Count of Mortain, had threatened his captured brother’s throne. Richard’s ransoming had brought him home again to England, where he had chastised John for his folly, sold suspended offices to find money for renewed warfare, and then was gone again. John had since behaved himself, but the earl knew that would soon change. Once Richard died, in all likelihood John would become king.
Unless he and men like him, men of powerful titles and wealthy houses, took steps to ensure John did not become king. And that if he should, to do what was necessary to protect certain interests John had never endorsed as his own.
England was, the earl believed, on the brink of disaster. Such times required haste and hard decisions.
He closed his eyes and would have given himself over to rest, save someone knocked briefly at the door, then opened it. Ralph again, though the letters were not in evidence.
“My lord,” the steward said, “the sheriff is here. Shall I tell him you are indisposed?”
“DeLacey?” The earl frowned. “What does he want?”
Ralph deferred his unnecessary answer with a courteous question. “Shall I show him in, my lord?”
Huntington considered declining—he found William deLacey frequently tedious—but in view of events, perhaps it would be best to see the sheriff. It was time to learn men’s hearts and minds, so they could be made use of—or controlled in other ways.
“Have him in,” he told Ralph. “Bring wine, and water.”
“My lord.” Ralph bowed himself out.
In a matter of moments deLacey was shown into the earl‘’s room, and a page brought wine and water. The sheriff, silvering dark hair windblown from his ride, brought the scent of horse and the chill of dampness into the room. Huntington coughed.
DeLacey was unctuous. “My lord, may I tender my most felicitous wishes for a hasty recovery?”
The earl eyed the man, then waved him into the chair beside the small table still holding inkpot, quill, wax, and parchment. He saw the sheriff note the signs of recent scrivening, though he smoothed his face into a mask of solicitude.
“You may tender more than felicitous wishes,” the earl said plainly. “You may tender me your opinion.”
The sheriff was clearly startled by the blunt invitation, but offered immediate acquiescence. “Of course, my lord. On what do you wish me to offer an opinion?”
“Your heart,” the earl declared.
DeLacey blinked. “My lord—?”
“You are Richard’s man,” Huntington stated. “You have paid him for your office so you belong to him.”
Color moved thickly in deLacey’s face. Brown eyes flickered momentarily before becoming opaque in poor light. “So I am, my lord,” he said tonelessly, “and so I did.”
“Therefore I require assurances of your heart, deLacey. Is it Richard’s as much as your money is his?”
Clearly at sea, the sheriff took great care with his words. “I am of course loyal to the Crown, my lord—”
Huntington interrupted. “I am not speaking of the Crown just now. I am speaking of Richard Plantagenet.”
DeLacey surrendered prevarication and careful courtesy. “Of what are we speaking, my lord? Am I Richard’s man? Yes; as you pointed out, I paid him to retain my office when he might have stripped me of it. But I was certainly not alone in this; he demanded it of many when he returned from imprisonment. Do I resent it?” The sheriff’s mouth hooked briefly. “I resent the necessity, but not the man who demanded it.”
“You supported the Count of Mortain, I believe, when last he was here.”
DeLacey opened his mouth. Shut it. Began again. “My lord, may I be frank?”
“If you would not waste my time.”
William deLacey said, “I owe my office to the
king’s pleasure. Only a fool endangers it by rebelling against that pleasure.”
“And if the crown is contested?”
A brief startled frown marred the sheriff’s brow. “Contested, my lord? In what way? Prince John will not attempt to overset his brother.” Unspoken was the knowledge John had once tried precisely that while the king was imprisoned in Germany, and had failed abysmally.
The earl gazed penetratingly at the other man. “There is the boy in Brittany.”
“Arthur? Yes, of course—but what has he to do with my office?”
“Your office may become his pleasure.”
DeLacey made a brief dismissive sound—he knew of no reason they should speculate without cause—then sealed his mouth closed. A muscle twitched along his jaw. Curiosity was rampant, but his lack of response confirmed his unwillingness to commit himself, or be led into hasty—and potentially incorrect—conclusions.
Tedious betimes, but never a fool. Huntington smiled. “So you may well wonder. But the succession is muddy at best. There is neither law nor precedence requiring a childless king’s youngest brother to inherit before the king’s nephew, if that nephew be sired by the next oldest brother.”
“Geoffrey,” the sheriff murmured, thinking swiftly.
“Were Geoffrey alive, he would be heir, as Richard has no sons. But though Geoffrey is dead, he did sire a son. And there are those who will argue Arthur has more right to the throne than John.”
The sheriff’s face had taken on a peculiar waxy pallor as he came to realize what the true point of discussion was. “My lord earl . . . may I ask you to be frank?”
And now the moment was here. Huntington relayed the truth without embellishment, without emotion. “The king is dying in France. He may already be dead. Therefore England is at risk.”
It confirmed deLacey’s suspicions as well as his concern for his personal welfare. “But he will name an heir!”
“If he is able, he will. According to the royal messenger, the king had not yet done so.”
Even deLacey’s lips were pale. “My God. My God.”
“Therefore I ask you again: are you Richard’s man? Or your own?”
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